Matt Stone will never look at a ripe fig in quite the same way
Warning: This article contains references to things which may affect future culinary choices.
By Matt Stone
WHEN recently “donating blood” at Dracula’s office we were chatting with the technician on significant geopolitical resolutions, which somehow moved onto the fruit season in our respective gardens. We spoke of apples, nashi pears, plums and what a good season it was, but shared disappointment in this year’s tomato crops.
In the conversation I said we could not prune the many low-hanging branches on our lovely old fig tree as they were absolutely laden with fruit. This elicited “Ah, the fig wasp!” from the technician. Liane and I looked at each other and agreed we had never heard of it. Our technician wasn’t able to give much detail, so suggested we google it - enough said, and I duly did.
WHEN recently “donating blood” at Dracula’s office we were chatting with the technician on significant geopolitical resolutions, which somehow moved onto the fruit season in our respective gardens. We spoke of apples, nashi pears, plums and what a good season it was, but shared disappointment in this year’s tomato crops.
In the conversation I said we could not prune the many low-hanging branches on our lovely old fig tree as they were absolutely laden with fruit. This elicited “Ah, the fig wasp!” from the technician. Liane and I looked at each other and agreed we had never heard of it. Our technician wasn’t able to give much detail, so suggested we google it - enough said, and I duly did.
